Winged Wheels in France

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

But all that has little to do with the ancient city of Bourges. It is to-day a town of some fifty thousand inhabitants, and its modern section holds a great arsenal and a gun foundry. Its streets are gay with the uniforms of many soldiers; its cafés bubbling over with life. Until the Maid delivered Orleans it was the capital of France. It possessed a university upon whose rolls appeared the names of Calvin and Cujas. It has been devastated by fire and sword, but I think its darkest day must have been that upon which Louis XI. first saw the light in yonder curious Hôtel Lallement; but let us pass on now and visit first the cathedral, considered by these people to be the most magnificent in France, and as one stands before its five great portals, each crowned with superb carvings, while far above soar the flying buttresses and great towers, the whole bathed in the mellow light of a setting sun, it surely is majestic, most impressive, and while perhaps not so perfect as Chartres it must delight the soul of an architect. Its location is especially fine. It stands high and is approached by long flights of steps up which the people are crowding for Vespers, to which the mellow tones of the old bells are summoning the faithful. As I enter and pass forward under the lofty arches, an ancient clock raps out the passing hour with a cheery tone and the great organ floods the silence with waves of melody. The church is especially rich in ancient glass through which the sunlight filters in long streams of colour touching here the living, bowed in prayer, and yonder an effigy of one long since dead,—dead for the sake of the Cross and holy Jerusalem.

One is permitted to wander unattended wherever fancy dictates, which is always a pleasure to the lover of these old shrines, and so one may enter into their soul and spirit until the stones almost speak. Here to-day it is quiet enough, back in the chapel of the Virgin behind the high altar, where it would be dark but for the trembling lights before the sacred image, and deserted, save for one old dame muttering her petitions.

Gazing backward the majestic double aisles reach away until lost in perspective and the roof of the nave in the fading light is so far above one as almost to seem a portion of the sky. Kings, princes, and people have passed by and left no mark, and the flying centuries have added to the beauty of this sacred edifice. A subdued murmur with the scraping of many chairs tells that the service is ended, and I pass with the people out on the great square to the south, gay with spring flowers and the brilliant scarlet of many uniforms. This is the hour when Bourges takes its pleasure and all the phases of that life so peculiar to France go on where once the walls of the city stood. That black caniche is taking excellent care of the baby in the wagon while its nurse flirts with the soldier boy. Those two officers, gorgeous in scarlet and gold, have so far made no impression upon those girls in yonder window, while from the cathedral come the black-robed priests to bask awhile in the sunshine of this world. The old dame in the kiosque, after selling me many postal cards, and giving me many bits of information about those around us but which I shall not repeat here, assures me that I shall find the "most interesting house" of Jacques Cœur far down yonder crooked street and that there is yet time to inspect it before the day ends; so I wander on to where it stands, a monument to the enterprise of one of the best of French citizens, also a monument to the ingratitude of one of the poorest and weakest of French kings.

THE PALACE OF JACQUES CŒUR, AT BOURGES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

Jacques Cœur was a famous silversmith of vast wealth, to whom Charles VII. applied for funds and who was taken at his word that "all that I have is thine." Jealousy and the sense of obligation on the part of all from the king down caused his destruction. He was accused of debasing the coinage, and of poisoning Agnes of Sorel. Sentenced to death he was saved by the Pope, and banished, and he finally died while leading a naval expedition for the Pontiff against the Turks. In this little Place you will pause a moment, ere you enter his still perfect palace, to gaze upon his statue which stands facing the house. The countenance is beautiful while stern, yet it possesses none of those attributes of craft necessary to meet such enemies as are raised up only to envy and jealousy. The house, as you see, shows a stately façade to the street and stands unchanged to-day, having been spared in the great revolution because of its history. One may even pull the same handle which jangles the same bell hung there by Jacques Cœur when the Maid of Orleans was alive.

His misfortunes made him immortal on earth and his generosity to France has preserved his house to us, a quaint and curious structure of the olden days. Note the courtyard and its curious carving, also the ceilings of the guard-rooms shaped like inverted boats. The reception-room of Jacques is now a court-room and where he gave all to his country and received no justice in return, justice is administered impartially, let us hope, to the French of to-day. After all, his life was not a failure, as he is not forgotten, and the desire to be remembered on this earth is, I think, greater than the desire to enter heaven. Certainly, it is the source of all ambition.

Bourges, however, possesses another figure in history which is better remembered by the world than that of Jacques, probably because wickedness always carves more deeply than goodness upon the pages of history and the life of a nation. Few in the world will remember who Jacques Cœur was, none can ever forget the crafty King Louis XI. and here in Bourges his sinister shadow was first cast athwart the life of France, for here in the Hôtel Lallement he was born.